Speak in Quiet Voices
by flightOficarus42
Summary: Destiel. AU High school. Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak meet at the end of summer before their senior year at Lawrence High. Both boys have attended school together since birth, but they have never crossed paths until Cas finds Dean in a rather compromising position. Their awkward friendship quickly evolves into something more. Mature for language/sexual content.
1. Ch 1 - a time before

If someone were to ask, I could not pinpoint the exact moment it happened – the moment I knew my life had changed forever. And I already know what you're thinking: How sappy, how cliché, how dramatic. I mean – yeah – I agree, but that doesn't make it any less true. In fact, if I die never being sure of anything else in my life, I will be sure of this; I am in love with Castiel Novak.

Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. Allow me to explain from the beginning. Allow me to bring you back to the moment it all started – the time before Castiel was part of my life, before I was certain about anything. It was the summer of Sammy's fourteenth birthday; I only recently had turned eighteen myself. A searing hot June had melted into an even hotter July, the heatwave like a snake slowly tightening its grip around Lawrence, Kansas.

The Winchester family was sprawling – less than nuclear – relatives and friends and neighbors lining the street with glass bowls full of onion dip and potato salad and fruit salad and pudding tucked beneath their arms as they prepared to celebrate Sam Winchester's birthday. Originally meant to be held in the back yard, the party had grown too large to be contained by fences – leaking through the open gate into the street and beyond. Dean had known Sammy was popular, but this was getting ridiculous.

Dean was sitting on the front steps, elbows propped on jean-clad knees. Despite the heat, Dean Winchester did not do shorts. He watched the sheep flock to the birthday boy – obedient moths to the ever-glowing flame of his younger brother. Literally. In the few months since school had ended, Sammy had undergone a major growth spurt; he now towered over Dean like a tree, still all arms and legs and gawk. It wouldn't be long now before he started high school, Dean thought; only a month and half left to savor his little brother's childhood.

"What're you doing?" A familiar voice shook Dean from his reverie. He craned his neck up, shielding his eyes from the son with a tan, freckled hand. Sam was string back, his mane of hair like a halo framing bitch face number 12: _you're acting like a creeper again_. Dean simply grunted in response, returning his gaze to the onslaught of people, a wave which seemed never ending.

After a moment's pause, Sam folded himself beside Dean, awkward knees spiking up too high for the position to be comfortable. If he minded, he didn't say. "Too hot," Dean offered by means of explanation. It was also an accusation, in a way. Sam seemed to understand the implied meaning: It's too damn hot for these fuckers to be herding themselves up just for a piece of cake and a look at the birthday boy.

"Yeah, well -" Sam held his hands out, palms up, in placation. Dean grunted again. "Wanna ditch?" Now he was talking. Dean was up in one fluid motion, sweaty fingers wiping against his AC/DC tee with intent. He walked on without looking back, knowing Sam would inevitably fall in step behind him. The younger boy's long legs easily set the pace, causing Dean to skip every other step to keep up. It wasn't long before they were full-on running, the race towards the Impala an unspoken challenge.

Sam slammed his hands down on the hood of the car. Dean, to his credit, was only a step behind – a glare forming between furrowed blonde brows, the hair nearly imperceptible from sun-bleaching, presumably from spending his days outside working on cars at their uncle Bobby's repair shop. "Bitch," Dean wheezed, sidling up to the side of his Baby with sour defeat as he hopped in and started the engine.

"Jerk," Sam shot back, falling into the passenger's seat less than gracefully. He had to wedge the seat back to its extreme, and even then he was all elbows and knees and head nearly grazing the roof with barely a half inch to spare. "Just start the damn car. And turn the AC on, would you? It's friggen hot." But Sam couldn't wait for Dean's response, his hands already fiddling with the temperature dials.

"Don't," Dean said between clenched teeth, "fuck with the car." His brother's hands dropped immediately, soon replaced by calloused ones – a thick layer of black grease settled into the nail-beds. After a moment of adjustment, the cool air sputtered to life. Sam sighed, leaning into the vents despite the sharp angle. Not that Dean could blame him, considering the amount of sweaty hair hanging from the kid's head.

"Just drive," Sam pleaded, the cool air obviously not incentive enough. Not that Dean could argue – he was restless himself, tired of shaking hands, shoulder-claps, the feel of old women's lips moist with spittle and perspiration pressed against his cheek like brands. He didn't need to be told twice. He threw the car in reverse, executing a perfect arc out of the driveway, slammed the shift to first and proceeded at a slow crawl down the road – careful not to plow down the mob of people blocking the exit. Why did they have to live at the end of a culdesac?

Dean laid on the horn, successfully scaring the wits out of the group of people standing between themselves and freedom; the adults jumped apart like crickets escaping extermination. Both boys chuckled, though Sam had the decency to wave and shrug apologetically. Dean only sniggered harder, laying his foot into the gas and clutch, throwing his girl into second and quickly third. With his free hand, he cranked down the window, throwing his arm over the side to rest against the painfully hot metal of the door. He would probably have a burn later, red welt from elbow to palm, but he didn't care. Nothing felt better than the cool breeze tickling his flesh, the neighborhood shrinking in the side mirror.

"You should probably slow down," Sam admonished, his own massive hands curled around the edge of the seat with white knuckles. Dean only chuckled, slamming into fourth just to get a rise out of his brother. They had turned onto a long stretch of back-road, the tarmac newly laid and even beneath the swollen tires of Dean's prized possession.

It had been weeks since Dean had left the house. He had been grounded mid-June for some mishap or another, probably school related. He had been taking a summer course to make up for his failure in chem-lab, a class that met once a week in the high school's science wing. Thinking back on it, Dean vaguely remembered an explosion – possibly his fault, possibly intentional – that had abruptly ended the last session. The teacher – while having his suspicions about Dean – claimed the incident to be 'a lad-related accident,' and he told the six students that he would give them all 'A's if they promised not to report what happened to the principal, a crude woman with a mustache and uni-brow. Disregarding the report, Mary Winchester grounded Dean the second he stepped through the front door with an off-colored smudge across his front. Despite his pleas of innocence, Mary could not be bull-shitted into submission as Mr. McCoy had been.

Dean tapped his fingers against the door in time with the song pulsating from the tape player. Sam had slipped a cassette into the slot sometime during Dean's flashback, and Dean's drumming had subsequently and unconsciously followed. He swallowed back his usual reprimand – _Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole – _remembering, after all, that it was Sammy's birthday. So, instead, he smiled and dialed up the volume, both boys wailing along to the dulcet tones of "Stairway to Heaven."

Later that night, Dean would reminisce about the look on Sammy's face as they hit 80mph, Zeppelin crashing to crescendo as they sped past cornfields and cattle. It was a look akin to freedom. And while he didn't consult a mirror, Dean was sure he wore it, too.


	2. Ch 2 - and then

**Author's note: **Alright, sorry for the slow start, but I like to set the scene.

I hope this will be a long fanfic, but we'll see how it goes.

This chapter ends with a bit of a cliff-hanger, but we'll get to see Cas in the next one!

If you want me to continue this, please message/review. I have other stuff going on,

so I'll only keep writing if I know people like what I'm putting down.

Love, Icarus

Dean had finally pulled over when they were twenty miles out of town. He stopped on the shoulder of the road, pulling into a dirt path that wound through what must have been a crop-field at one time. Now, he was leaning back on the hood of the Impala while Sammy fiddled with the radio, inside. Again, he felt the temptation to tell his little brother to stop fiddling with his Baby, but he was in too good of a mood to complain.

Dusk had settled over them, the temperature dropping minimally – but just enough for the air to seem thinner, more breathable. The sky was opalescent, morphing from baby blue to sapphire to azure and indigo and back again. There were no clouds, and despite the sliver of sun still peaking over the distant timberline, Dean could see the shadows of stars appearing overhead like tiny holes in the universe.

"Dean!" Sam shattered his peace, leaning out the passenger's window of the Impala and throwing an empty soda can at his arm. "It's almost eight, we should get back."

The older sibling mulled this over in his head, realizing they had been gone longer than he thought – they'd probably been parked outside of Lawrence for six hours. Still, he felt reluctant to return to so many judgmental eyes. Sure, Sammy got the praise and the appreciative pats like a loyal dog. But Dean? In comparison, he was invisible. Essentially ignored. He was in no rush to return to a world where he was a constant disappointment. After all, that's why their father left, wasn't it? John wanted Dean to want more for himself, wanted him to be like Sam.

"Dean!" Again, Sam snapped him from his drifting thoughts – a good thing, this time. They were slowly turning dark, going down a road he hadn't traveled since John packed his bags and left nearly five years ago.

"Sammy, happy birthday," Dean said as he slid back into the car, realizing only now that he had yet to say the words. He may not have been good with expressing emotions, but things were different with his brother. He loved Sammy – a raw, deep, devoted sort of love. He was reminded of this now as his kid brother stuck his head out the window, on the drive back – cooled night air blowing his chin-length hair back from his forehead.

When they arrived home, Mary Winchester was none too happy with their disappearing act. Sam, being the birthday boy, got off easy; all he had to do was clean up the yard, dumping red solo cups and paper plates into trash bag after trash bag. Comparatively, Dean had it much worse: He had to take all of the washed, glass dishes back to their owners.

Mary, being the oddly organized person that she was – either that or she was telepathic – knew precisely which dish belonged to whom and had labeled them accordingly. "The addresses are on the notecards taped to the side. It's not that hard, Dean, so don't give me that look. All you have to do is walk down the street and knock on doors – hand them the appropriate dish. Easy as pie," Mary chided, pushing Dean out the door with two bags full of dishes.

The door had been closed in his face before he had time to complain, forcing him to swallow the comeback of _If they wanted their damn dishes, they shouldn't have left them here!_ But it seemed pointless to yell at a door. With a huff, he pulled out the first dish and proceeded to the house across the street.

An hour and a half later, Dean still had one dish left. He was the next street over, a pink glass bowl tucked under his arm. He had lost his patience somewhere after the second house when an elderly woman opened the door and stabbed his foot with her cane proclaiming _You tryin' to steal my dishes, hooligan?_ It was hard to keep a smile on when your foot felt like an ice pick went through it. The only upside was that shortly after that, a few houses down, a hot blonde had answered the door in only a large tee that barely grazed her thighs.

The memory of the blonde – a girl named Ruby who had forked over her number with little persuasion – reminded Dean of how long it had been since he'd had a one night stand. What with summer school subsequently followed by his grounding – not to mention the countless hours spent working for Bobby – he hadn't even kissed a girl since the last week of school. Over a month without sex? It was only now becoming a problem as he recalled Ruby's thin, smooth legs – all tan and goosebumped from the AC leaking out of the house. Dean felt his jeans get uncomfortably tight.

"Damnit!" He cursed under his breathe, eyes wandering around the neighborhood to check if anyone was around to notice his unfortunate dilemma. He even had the decency to be mildly embarrassed. It's not like he could ring the last doorbell with a hard-on, risk the possibility of another old lady with a cane seeing that he couldn't keep it in his pants. This decided for him; he wouldn't visit – what was it? He looked down at the card: _44 Crescent Street. Mr. and Mrs. Novak. Thank them for the wonderful fruit salad, everyone enjoyed it_. Leave it to his mother to write little notes about the food the once-filled bowls contained. Well, the Novaks would just have to wait a little while longer to get their dish back.

Dean wrapped the extra plastic bag around the dish, stuffing it into the first bag for safe-keeping. He started to turn back when he realized – his mother would just send him back out tomorrow. Maybe he could just leave it? On the doorstep? Before the idea could even solidify, he felt his thoughts drift back to a pair of long legs, a tiny crease of purple underwear winking out –

He felt his hard-on throb against his fly. With a growl, he stomped back up the street, determined to find somewhere private where he could relieve himself. Damn Lawrence with its sprawling neighborhoods and long-ass streets. He, however, did notice a small area of tree-cover set apart from two houses near the start of the street. The ground dipped into a hollowed out mouth, a small pond curving around the road and into what could hardly be classified as 'woods.'

But Dean didn't see very many other options as another flash of purple lingerie flashed against the backs of his eyelids. Cursing, he stumbled down the slope. Under the trees, it seemed much more secluded than it had looked from the road. The trees themselves bowed over, offering shade, the water was set back further than he had previously thought. And there was a half-hazard bench made from stumps and logs and nails propped between two pines, its back facing the road.

With a look over his shoulder for good measure, Dean was happy to find that he would be nearly invisible from here – too obscured by dense underbrush. Perhaps it was more of a forest than he thought, the thin copse of trees edging back deep into darkness. He sidled up to the bench, testing his weight on its middle.

When the structure seemed to hold, he slumped into its frame. Purple underwear. Long, tan legs. Legs spreading. He couldn't take it anymore. The bag-wrapped dish abandoned at his side, he unbuttoned his pants and pulled down the zipper – releasing his hard-on like a jack-in-the-box. It sprung out of the hole in his boxer shorts with anticipation, as if knowing what was about to happen.

Dean stroked his length, moaning as he did so. Purple underwear, flowing blonde hair. Another moan. Spreading those tan legs and –

There was the sound of a twig snapping from somewhere close-by.


	3. Ch 3 - until we meet

**Author's note:**_ I was surprised to see so many people like/follow my story considering it's only been two chapters in less than 2 days. Thanks! I appreciate the love and comments, and I hope this mutual support will continue._

_Love, Icarus_

Dean stilled in his ministrations, ears attempting to clarify the noise that sent his heart up into his throat. Now, Dean may have lived in Lawrence, Kansas all his life – but he had never been much of an outdoors-man. He didn't know what kind of wildlife traipsed these parts. That sound – that snapping twig sound from an obvious weight shift – could be anything from a squirrel to a goddamn wolverine for all he knew.

After a moment of silence, only the hum of crickets leaking into the cool summer breeze, Dean returned to his act, deciding it was merely a smaller animal that had been scared off. The temporary pause had sent much of the blood from his member quickly racing to his heart in a burst of adrenaline though. But he was still throbbing substantially in his hand. He grunted as he continued, starting off slower than before – suddenly too caught up in the sensation of touch.

He slid his hand to the base, feeling his boxers rub against the side of his hand as he pulled the foreskin back from the glands, relishing in the slow peel, the friction. But the intensity was building quickly, and so his hand moved faster. He was panting now. Purple panties. Tan legs wrapped around him. Lips sucking his neck. Blonde hair tickling his chin. Fuck.

He came with a stifled moan, the release oddly unsatisfying. Regardless, the climax had taken some of his remaining energy with it. Slumping into the bench, eyes closed, member still loose in his hand – a slight bit of cum leaking over the top and down his length – he felt he could fall asleep then and there.

That is, of course, until another twig snapped. This time, he was sure the sound came from something _much_ larger than a squirrel. Did mountain lions live in Kansas?

He hastily deposited himself back in his trousers, quickly doing things up as he jumped to his feet. He surprisingly found his voice shaking as he called out, "Get outta here, you beast!"

And, even more to his surprise, something very un-cat-like fell out of the nearby trees. Something – or someone – who looked just slightly too flustered to have arrived only just now.

Dean froze, stiffening as he watched the boy the climb to his hands and knees and quickly shuffle backwards with his head dipped. "What the fuck!?" Dean screeched in a manner a little less dignified than he would have liked.

The peeping Tom muttered apologies under his breath, his face obscured in the shadows. The sun had set, only a sliver of moonlight streaming through the tree-canopy to illuminate the bench precisely where Dean had been – well – releasing himself. Dean repeated his previous sentiments, boot-clad foot kicking out at the boy as if he were a feral dog about to attack. "What're you doing?! What the actual fuck, man!"

The boy was on his feet in a matter of seconds, already racing away from Dean, deeper into the recesses of the woods. If Dean were more afraid of what the boy had seen than he was of what could lie within that darkness, he would have followed. But the images of mountain lion jaws and glowing eyes were still too real in his mind to convince himself to follow.

So, instead, he shook his fist in the air, yelling, "You better run, kid! If I ever see you again, I'm gonna fucking kill you! Anyone ever teach you not to spy on people, you creep!" But his energy was draining quickly, rage burning into embarrassment even as the words left his mouth.

He ended up leaving the bowl on the Novak's front steps after all.

oOo

Meanwhile, along the outskirts of the trees, Castiel Novak found himself panting in terror. He leaned against the firm trunk of a pine, using the bark as an anchor in reality. His heart was hammering too loudly in his ears for anything else to seem real.

He had only been escaping to his favorite night-time hideaway for a bit of peace and quiet when he happened to notice a hunking figure looming over his usual spot.

Now, Castiel had not planned to stick around as soon as he realized the situation. That the hunched figure was actually a man – a boy – and that he was masturbating with heated aggression. But then the boy's head lifted, and he caught sight of those green eyes.

Green the color of moss in summertime, the sort that grows on the underbellies of rocks where salamanders hide from the sun. Cool, damp moss.

That penetrating graze – which, he assumed, had lifted in response to the twig snapping under his own toe – seemed so vulnerable. Granted, the boy didn't realize he wasn't alone in the woods; he didn't realize that the twig wasn't a dangerous beast about to maul him. But Castiel swore there was more to the vulnerability than that – something darker and deeper and softer.

He ran a hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had formed in his haste to put distance between himself and the beautiful boy with the green eyes. Of course, he knew him immediately. Dean Winchester. Even if his face was seen, Castiel was certain that the other boy would never recognize who he was.

Despite attending school together since birth, essentially, Dean Winchester had never given a second glance to Castiel. He didn't bully him by any means. That would require him to realize the smaller boy existed.

But Castiel watched now as Dean stampeded out of the woods and down the street, throwing a balled up _something_ onto his own front porch. If he had attended Sam's cookout party, he would have known the mystery package to be his mom's favorite punch bowl. But Castiel Novak was not known to socialize.

In fact, Castiel Novak was hardly known at all.


	4. Ch 4 - Castiel

_**Author's Note:**__ Sorry this is so late guys. I probably should have mentioned this from the get-go: I have severe tenosynovitis in my hand and scar tissue in my wrist- making typing difficult and painful. I love writing, but it has become too hard to perform on a regular basis. So I will try to update when I can. And, again, sorry. I love you all. Long live Destiel!_

Dean was sprawled across the hood of Baby, legs bent at the knee, heels resting on the front bumper. His hands were cupped beneath his head, fingers numb from digging into the windshield for so long. He was nearly asleep. The sun was warm, beating down on the black paint of the Impala. Dean had ear-buds in, his iPod cranked to the max – blaring Zeppelin until the rest of the world was drowned out in a pink-ish, yellow haze behind his eyelids. If it weren't for the sudden shift of the car, he would have stayed like that all day.

Dean flicked open an eyelid, squinting into the sunlight. A dark figure leaned against the front of the car, a halo of sunlight blocking out their features like a halo. Sitting up while simultaneously removing the headphones, Dean blinked himself into awareness. "Who the hell are you?"

The now distinguishable figure – a boy with dark hair and stubble – had the decency to flush at the interjection. He removed himself from the car's edge, standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets, eyes trained on the driveway. "My name is Castiel," the boy said in a deep, gravelly voice. For a moment, Dean was speechless, taken aback by the tone of the shorter boy's statement. His voice was like rocks; blunt rocks.

But rather than question the octave in which the boy spoke, the first thing to tumble out of Dean's mouth was: "What the heck kind of name is that?" It wasn't his finest moment, but it was a legitimate question nonetheless. I mean – Castiel? That sounded sort of feminine; in a weird, foreign kind of way.

"I am named after the angel of Thursday," Castiel reply gruffly, his toe slowly digging into the pavement in a nervous gesture. His eyes flickered up to Dean's; they were the definition of blue, framed by curled black lashes.

"Hands off the merchandise. I just washed her," was all Dean could think to reply with. He pushed at the sleeves of his flannel, wanting to strip off the over-warm layer but feeling somehow exposed in front of this boy.

"My apologies. I just came by to –" Castiel stopped mid-sentence, as if he suddenly forgot why he was there at all. He leaned slightly towards Dean, eyes flickering left then right before settling straight on Dean's mouth. There was a pause where Dean found himself watching those eyes, conscious of where they landed – he licked his lips and watched as the smaller boy flushed pink once more.

"To what, Cas?" Dean pushed, impatient with curiosity. Something about the way the boy moved with him, the way his eyes followed the movement of his lips – the way his eyelashes kissed his cheekbones as he watched Dean's mouth. Dean cleared his throat, startling them both.

"I saw you." Castiel looked relieved at his admission, his shoulders suddenly slumping away from his ears where they had been since the beginning of the conversation.

"Come again?" Dean asked, his eyebrows meeting his hairline. He felt uncomfortable all of a sudden, vulnerable under this boy's scrutiny. He crossed his arms against his chest, moving out of the sun and into the shade of the overhanging garage door. It was cooler in the mouth of the cement room, and he felt better knowing he could simply hit a button and separate himself from this stranger with a sheet of metal.

Castiel shifted awkwardly, his hands digging deeper into the pockets of what Dean now realized was a tan trench coat. He must be sweltering in that thing. Cas took a step forward, his eyes boring into Dean's as if trying to communicate telepathically. "The other night. The next street over," Castiel jutted his head in the direction of which he spoke. "I saw you. You were –" he cleared his throat, a deep guttural sound. It became clear after a heavy silence that he was not going to continue.

But he didn't need to. Dean was finally starting to get the picture. He felt slightly sick, rocking noticeably on the balls of his feet. He lurched towards Cas, grabbing hold of the lapels of his coat. His eyes were liquid emerald, scrunched and ferocious. He looked like a jungle cat waiting for the kill. "Listen here, ya little shit. You saw nothing, ya hear?" Dean spat out in a barely contained whisper. Castiel cringed at the hot breath that met his face, the tension in the forearm gripping his collar. Cas's heels were off the ground, his toes barely making contact. He had misjudged just how strong Dean Winchester really was.

"I was not going to tell anyone," Castiel squeaked out. "I swear it," he added for good measure. Dean held him steady for a beat before returning him to his rightful place on the ground. He smoothed a hand over the lapel to flatten it before re-crossing his arms and leaning against the side of the house.

"How much did you see?" Dean croaked. He felt insanely uncomfortable, but he was filled with morbid curiosity. So this was the kid who fell out of the trees and ran. Figures.

"All of it," Castiel admitted shamefully, his voice steady – but his red ears betrayed him. He backed away from Dean a few steps now, conscious of the predator he was standing in the midst of.

"So what are you? Some kinda freak who – who gets his freak on from watching people do the dirty in the woods?" Dean laughed darkly, spluttering as he attempted to contain his embarrassment.

Castiel looked equal parts ashamed and embarrassed. "It's nothing like that."

"Then explain it to me, Cas."

"I –" Castiel took a deep breath, his eyes finding Dean's lips once more. "I spend a lot of time by the creek. To escape. I built the makeshift bench you were sitting on. I was on my way to my usual place when I heard a noise. That is when I noticed you," Cas paused to make sure Dean was paying attention. Their eyes met and held as he went on with his narrative. "At first I was going to leave. But you – you surprised me when you began touching yourself. I admit I should have left."

"So what, then? You're some kinda queer?" Dean fumed, his own ears turning red.

Castiel seemed to cave into himself, shoulders curling forward like a turtle retreating into its shell for protection. When Dean noticed the smaller boy's reaction, he heaved a deep breath, running a hand down his face to calm his temper. The kid caught him jacking off, big deal. He was being a dick, and obviously the kid was scared of him.

"Listen," Dean forced out, "You wanna stalk through the woods in the middle of the night like some kinda creeper? Fine. But next time you see someone havin' some private time – don't stand around like a damned peeping Tom!"

Castiel breathed out for what seemed the first time in minutes. He didn't point out, of course, that Dean had also been stalking through the woods in the middle of the night like 'some kinda creeper,' and he certainly didn't point out that he wasn't technically the one doing something sketchy outside after-hours. Instead, Castiel just nodded solemnly, turned on his heel in a flutter of tan trench coat-tails, and walked back up the street.


End file.
